


Not Just Another Auld Lang Syne

by rubygirl29



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Steve Rogers, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, New Year's Eve, Steve Feels, Veterans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee Shop AU. Natasha, Jane and Darcy own Les Trois Demoiselles bakery and cafe. There are no superpowers. Bucky and Steve are army veterans working harder than they should to find a normal life after the traumas that have scarred them. Steve has bad lungs, Bucky is an amputee. Tony and Pepper are "fixers" by nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just Another Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from. One minute I was writing a Clint/Phil holiday story and the next thing I knew, Bucky was talking and wouldn't shut up until I wrote this story instead. So, fluff and angst. Not exactly pre-serum Steve, but he's human and physically vulnerable. No superpowers involved.As usual, with Bucky, angst is involved. The story is set in my Les Trois Demoiselles coffee shop AU. Not beta-ed, all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns everybody. I own only my AU.

_November_

It's a raw, windy day just after Thanksgiving when James Buchanan Barnes checks out AMA from the VA hospital in Redbank New Jersey and catches the train to Brooklyn. His left sleeve is empty. Left behind is the clumsy prosthetic arm with the hook for a hand that Bucky hates. The doctors had wanted him to stay, the therapists had said they would try to find a prosthetic that didn't weigh a ton and had advanced tech to make it function more like a real arm and hand, but Bucky knows they don't give those away for free and he doesn't have anybody to "crowdsource" it for him, or whatever they called those damn fundraising websites. People still stare at him, but at least he isn't scaring babies or hearing wiseass teenagers call him Hook. 

He's not a monster; he's a vet without an arm and PTSD issues. He's mostly good, though, as long as he stays away from crowds and fireworks displays. He has his veteran's disability checks and he's saved nearly all of his combat duty pay for the last two years. He isn't going to starve, but he needs a place to stay and a job to keep him sane. 

He's from Brooklyn, born and raised. He knows his way around but as he scans the local real estate pages, he realizes there's no way in hell he can afford the rent in his old neighborhood. Discouraged and cold, he makes his way to a coffee shop across the street from the last place on his list for affordable housing. Les Trois Demoiselles looks warm and cheerful in the early twilight, and Bucky hasn't eaten all day — not because he doesn't have money, but because he's forgotten what it's like to have to forage for himself instead of having the VA cafeteria on hand.

When he opens the door, a rush of cinnamon and coffee scented air makes him dizzy for a moment and he clings to the door frame until the floor stops slipping away from his feet. He's starving and cold, and his whole body aches. He finds a table, slings his duffel bag down and approaches the register. The petite brunette barista behind the register is deeply involved in what looks like a textbook three inches thick and filled with equations that Bucky can't begin to comprehend. He clears his throat and she startles. 

"Oh, sorry! My head was up in the stars. What can I get for you?"

"Umm … black coffee and a cinnamon roll?"

He must look hungry because she adds, "We also have Italian Wedding Soup today. It's really good."

Bucky's mouth is watering. He thinks about the money in his pocket and decides that it will be worth it to have something to nourish him beyond caffeine and sugar. "Sounds good. Give me a bowl of that."

"It comes with a parmesan cheese roll."

Bucky smiles. "Even better," and the barista smiles back at him, only to have it falter when he reaches for the tray and she realizes he's an amputee. 

"I'll bring it out," she offers as she hands him his coffee and waves away the twenty he was holding out to her. "We have a policy. Military personnel's first meal is on the house to thank you for your service."

"How did you know I was military?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. It's - it's just that you remind me of somebody I know who was military. And … your dog tags … " She's blushing and flustered by her faux pas. 

He's forgotten about the tags. She doesn't deserve to feel guilty for that. He's discovered that if he acts as if it's nothing to him it puts other people at ease. He shrugs. "It happens," he smiles and hopes that it looks like a smile and not a grimace. Apparently, it works. "I'll just sit over there," he points to his table. 

"I'm Jane," she says impulsively. 

"James." He realizes how formal and stiff that sounds. "Or Bucky." He nods and heads toward the table. There is a newspaper left on the chair and he checks the date. It's today's, and he's been working off a week old paper he found at the bus terminal. He settles in and starts searching the classified ads. 

Jane comes over a few minutes later with his food. "Looking for a place to live?" she asks, her curiosity more of a conversation starter than an intrusion. 

"Looking for a job. I'm not exactly an ideal candidate." 

Jane gnaws at her lip. "May I sit?" she asks, and Bucky doesn't argue with her. "I'm only one-third owner, and Natasha really has the final say, but we've been looking for a night manager so we can get out of here once in a while. And as a bonus, there's an apartment upstairs. It's nothing fancy, just a studio, but the rent would be included in your salary."

Bucky blinks at the unexpected kindness of the offer. "What does a night manager do?"

"Counts the money, balances the cash drawer. Sets us up for the morning. Keeps an eye on the late-evening customers. Locks up. In the morning they start up the coffee urns. If Darcy has pastries that need to go in the oven, they put them in, checks in our deliveries and opens the cafe at 7am." 

It sounds like something he can do. "Where do I apply?"

"Natasha will be in at eight. Why not stick around for a while and talk to her in person?"

He doesn't have anywhere else to go. "I'll do that." He takes a spoon of soup and nearly moans at the taste of the rich broth, pasta and delicate meatballs. It's the best thing he's had in months. No, years. Maybe ever. The roll is crusty with cheese and moist with butter. He's seriously in love with this place. 

He's working on the NYT crossword puzzle when the door chimes and a stunning red-haired woman strides in. Bucky blinks at her."Natalya?"

She comes to an abrupt halt and turns slowly. "Yasha?" He stands and she runs over to him, throwing her arms around his waist in a hard hug. "I can't believe it!"

He laughs down at her. "How long has it been?"

"Eight years? Oh, I don't know. What are you doing here? How are you?" 

He moves away from her. "Not the same as I was the last time you saw me."

She steps back and pales when the empty sleeve finally catches her attention. "Oh, Yasha. I'm so sorry!" She hugs him closer. "I won't ask questions, I promise, but really, how are you?" she repeats, and this time it's softer, more concerned and sad.

"Homeless, unemployed, and wondering why I'm here in Brooklyn."

"Because it's home?" 

"As close to one as I've ever had," he admits ruefully. 

Jane has been hovering in the background, waiting for the right moment to speak up. "You know each other?"

"Yeah," Bucky smiles. "We went to Russian school together a long time ago."

"Not _that_ long ago," Natasha objects.

Jane gnaws at her lip. "Umm, 'Tasha, I told him about the job … you know … the night manager job?"

Natasha takes a breath. "You did?

Bucky speaks up in Jane's defense. "Listen, Natasha, if I'm not what you're looking for, I understand." 

Natasha looks at him with narrowed eyes. "Did Jane tell you what the job entails?"

"Yes. I can do just about anything but heavy lifting. That's kinda hard to do with one hand."

"That wasn't what I was asking, but do you want to give it a shot? It's not exactly exciting."

"I've had enough exciting to last my lifetime." 

"I can imagine," she replies and sits with him. "Eat. Then we'll talk more about the job. Jane, pull me an espresso?"

"Sure, boss." 

They spend the next half hour catching up. Bucky can't tell her much about where he's been, and he's not about to tell her about being a sniper, or what it was like to lose his arm, or why he doesn't have a prosthetic. Of course, she asks about that. He supposes she has a right as a friend and a prospective employer.

"I had one. I hated it. You know I'm vain, and it was was fucking ugly." 

His self-deprecation doesn't fool Natasha one bit. "Yasha, the truth."

He doesn't look at her as he answers. "Because the amputation is above the elbow and almost to the shoulder, the arm they gave me was heavy. It was anchored with straps across my chest and back, and the cup … it hurt. It was more than I was willing to bear so I walked away from the hospital without it."

"Oh, Yasha," Natasha takes his hand and holds it, her thumb stroking gently across his knuckles. "You don't deserve this."

"Yeah, well, neither did the men who died. Tasha, don't offer me the job out of pity," he warns.

"James, I'm far too mercenary for that. Come on, I'll show you the apartment. If you don't have a place to stay tonight, you're welcome to crash here no matter what you decide about the job."

He follows her upstairs. The apartment is small, but the walls are painted a soft ivory and a window promises that daylight will brighten the space. The "kitchen" consists of a microwave, a toaster oven, and an single cup coffee brewer set up on a counter at one end of the room, with a dorm-sized refrigerator tucked under the countertop. 

There is a twin bed in a curtained-off alcove. A door leads to a pocket-sized bathroom. The living area has a sofa, a coffee table and a low bookshelf with a small, flat-screen TV on it. A floor lamp sheds a warm light into the space. 

"It's nice," Bucky says. He's surprised by how home-like it is. He wants to move in, he wants the job. He's so tired of everything … pain, uncertainty, loneliness.

"Put your things down, and I'll show you the kitchen. We'll give you a few days to acclimatize and learn the equipment. Darcy and Jane will be thrilled for the help." 

"I hope I'm a help and not a hindrance."

"You'll be fine!" Natasha leans her head against his shoulder. "It's good to see you again, Yasha. I never thought I would." 

"Yeah, me neither." He has a lot of questions for her, but this isn't the time to ask them. Maybe someday when they have a bottle of vodka between them, he'll find the courage.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
She gives him a tour of the immaculate kitchen, pantry, and delivery area. The kitchen is warm and smells like yeast and cinnamon. Just breathing the air is comforting. Bucky can feel all the pent-up tension and worry draining from him. His knees feel weak and he sways slightly. Anybody less perceptive than Natasha wouldn't have noticed, but she does and catches his arm. 

"You need to get off your feet," she scolds. "I've been a bad boss and a worse friend."

Bucky shakes his head, his hair falling forward. "Natasha, you just offered me a job and a place to live, trusting on faith. I don't know how to thank you."

"By going upstairs and getting off your feet, Yasha. I will bring you something to eat. You are too thin."

"Try living on the food in the VA cafeteria for four months and you'd be skinny, too," he grumps. 

She rolls her eyes. "Go. Now." 

He does, because Natasha makes a scary boss, and he really is feeling the effects of a long day. He opens the door to the apartment with the key Natasha gave him, then locks it behind him, savoring the quiet. Even in the hospital, he was always aware of people watching him, of the pity and fear in their eyes. He's a reminder of their mortality, how frail their flesh is. Here, alone with a locked door between himself and the rest of the world, he feels safe.

He opens the refrigerator and smiles. Somebody, probably Jane, has stocked it. There are six eggs, a package of bacon, a container of soup, and a small carton of orange juice. There is also butter and milk, and next to the refrigerator, a small loaf of bread. 

There is a note on a plate. _We didn't know what kind of tea you like, so here's a selection._. Bucky picks up a sachet of camomile tea and puts a mug of water in the microwave to heat. While he waits for the tea to steep, he unpacks his bag. He has sleep pants and a robe from the hospital. He takes the extra blanket from the bed and wraps it around his shoulders. He seems to have a hard time retaining body heat since Afghanistan, though the doctors there told him that without the frigid mountain air he would have bled out before the para-rescue team found him and airlifted him off the mountain. 

He curls up on the sofa, turns the TV on to the Food Network. While he was in the hospital, it was the only channel where he didn't feel like he was going to be assaulted with triggers for his flashbacks. With the volume on low, he drifts off to sleep. 

He wakes up before dawn, showers and makes coffee. He's too nervous to eat. He's stared down death through the scope of a rifle with hands as steady as a rock; he's lived through hell and pain, but the thought of starting a life that is "normal" is giving him the shakes. He does some breathing exercises and at seven, when he hears the sound of rattling pans in the kitchen, he goes downstairs. 

Natasha is sipping coffee at the counter while a dark-haired young woman with the figure of a Renaissance beauty is setting out baking sheets. One of the sheets starts sliding, and Bucky catches it quickly. She looks up at him, blinks and grins. "Thanks. You must be James."

"Umm, you can call me Bucky?"

"You look more like a James," she observes. "I'm Darcy, pastry goddess and chef extraordinaire." She starts scooping batter into muffin tins and ignores Natasha's snort of derision.

"Come have coffee," Natasha invites. "Muffins will be ready soon." She takes out a ledger and a laptop. While they drink coffee and wait for food, she explains the operations of the cafe, how and when to place orders with their suppliers, and which local markets have the ingredients Darcy likes the best. His nerves quickly dissipate and he starts asking questions, daring to point out a discrepancy that has Natasha grinning because he just saved them money. 

Darcy brings over two oatmeal toffee muffins with brown butter drizzle and Bucky takes a bite. It's heavenly and he closes his eyes to savor the taste and texture. When he opens his eyes, Darcy is watching him expectantly. He sighs, "I think I'm in love." 

"Okay, you're officially my favorite manager."

Natasha snorts, "You're just saying that because he's so pretty."

Bucky groans and blushes. "Stop it, 'Tasha." He notices, however, that Darcy doesn't argue the point. 

"So," Natasha says, "Let's get back to the everyday routine."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
Two weeks later, Bucky can run the shop in Natasha's absence without his heart pounding out of his chest. He's made friends with the delivery man and has adjusted the delivery schedule to maximize the best fresh produce and dairy products. He knows which ingredients Darcy prefers to buy from local producers and which he can order online. He can brew coffee as well as Jane and has memorized her special blends. Out of curiosity, he's started watching Darcy in the kitchen, learning how to bake batches of her most requested muffins and quick breads, so that he can put together a selection of pastries if she can't make it to work at the crack of dawn. Darcy has him wrapped around her little finger, and he's not in denial about that.

He's gradually learning who the regular customers are; most are waiting when they open in the morning, and more than a few of them work for Stark Industries. Pepper Potts, the CEO and her driver are regulars, as is Stark himself - a snarky, self- aware guy who is smarter than most of the world population. 

The first time he meets Bucky, he looks at his empty sleeve. "If you want to do something about that, I've got the best team of biomechanical engineers in the world. Call me." He hands Bucky a card that he pockets in his apron, and even though he thanks Tony for the interest, he doubts he'll pursue it. He's gotten used to having only one arm and he can't quite wipe the memory of his last bad prosthetic from his mind. 

Doctor Bruce Banner runs the neighborhood free clinic around the block and usually comes in late, looking like he slept at his desk. He always has a kind word for Darcy and Jane, and once, when Bucky's arm was particularly bad, had encouraged him to drop by the clinic for some therapy that might help. It does, and in return, Bucky offers to supply him with free coffee whenever he calls. Natasha just purses her lips when he offers to pick up Banner's tab. She shakes her head, "I can use it as a tax write-off." It's about the worst excuse in the world. Bucky has to hide his grin behind his cup of coffee. Bruce decides that the best way to help Bucky is to make an appointment with Stark's team of biomechanical engineers. It was easier to brush off Stark than it is to object to Bruce's kindness. 

Phil Coulson runs some sort of security team for S.H.I.E.L.D., He looks unassuming in his corporate suits but he carries himself like a warrior. He's there nearly every morning with the local celebrity, Clint Barton, former Olympic gold medalist and now archery instructor and technical consultant for Stark Industries. The first time Bucky sees Clint and Phil together he knows they're partners; their affection for each other is palpable in every glance and casual touch. 

Bucky wonders if they are unaware of how blissful they look to observers, or if they know and don't care. It is New York, after all. When Darcy asks him if he's envious or annoyed, "It's all good," he says with an enigmatic smile, which sends Darcy back into the kitchen muttering about good-looking men and their damn secrets. 

He's only being honest, something he couldn't be for most of his military career. Sure, DADT had been repealed, but he was too involved in special ops missions to think about it. Then he had his arm blown off and relationships were pretty much a moot point. He's not lonely, he tells himself, now that he has a place in this world, a door he can lock, and friends. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

_Christmas Eve_

Natasha had given Bucky the discretion to decide what time to close the shop before she left for the holiday. It's been a long day of exhausted shoppers, cranky kids, and slacker teens occupying booths and nursing cold lattes for _hours_ , but as darkness falls, people start leaving to go home to their families and friends; to parties and church services. By seven, the shop is deserted and by eight, Bucky is shutting things down. His arm hurts and he wants nothing more than to lock up and head upstairs to his tiny apartment.

He's wiping down the counter when there is a soft tap on the window. He looks up to see a tall, skinny guy peering hopefully through the glass. _Crap._ He should have flipped the sign first, but now there's nothing to be done but to tell him that they're closed. He opens the door and lets in a gust of cold air and the first snowflakes of the night."I'm closing," he says to the unwelcome customer. 

The guy blinks at him. "S-sorry. I-It was inconsiderate …"

_Who the hell says inconsiderate?_ Bucky sighs. The sign still says they're open and he's not so hard-hearted to turn away a guy who looks like an extra in _Dr. Zhivago_. "I reckon I can spare a cup of coffee, but it's not fresh."

"D-don't care," the guy stutters with the cold. "L-long as it's hot."

Bucky opens the door wider to let him in, then closes it and flips the sign to keep anybody else from thinking he's pulling an all-nighter on Christmas Eve. The man looks cold; his vintage army field jacket probably doesn't have much warmth left in it and there are snowflakes sticking to his ridiculously long eyelashes. His nose is red and his lips are chapped; in short, he looks miserable.

He coughs, shielding his mouth with his sleeve. "Sorry."

"How do you take your coffee?"

"Black with sugar." He's looking at the nearly empty pastry case with something like desperation, and Bucky can see, now that he's in the proper light, exactly how thin he is and how his eyes have that haunted look of somebody desperate for food. He coughs again, and it sounds like his lungs are about to rattle apart.

"Man, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Cold came up too fast and triggered my asthma. It'll be better once I warm up." He wraps his hands around the mug of coffee Bucky has set on the counter. He raises it to his lips with shaking hands and takes a sip. "God, that's good."

Bucky looks at the leftover pastry. The shop is closed tomorrow and the Morning Glory muffins Darcy baked that morning will be too stale to serve the day after. He takes two out, puts one in a bag and the other on a plate that he puts in the microwave for a few seconds to freshen it. He takes out a container of Mascarpone and sets it in front of his shivering customer. "Here. You look like you're hungry."

He takes a few sips of the hot coffee and sighs as the heat penetrates the winter cold. "I'm fine," he says, but his cheeks redden with a blush and his eyes linger on the muffin like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"It's on the house," Bucky says. "It won't keep for two days, so you might as well take it."

"Thanks." Now that he's stopped shaking, he doesn't seem quite so Dickensian. "I should get out of here and let you close up."

"I heated up that muffin for you, dude. You might as well eat it."

He smiles at that, and Bucky realizes that the guy is fucking _gorgeous_. Nobody that good-looking should be alone on Christmas Eve, which prompts his curiosity. He holds out his hand. "I'm James Barnes."

"Steve Rogers." He shakes Bucky's hand politely. "You should finish closing up. I'll be out of here in five, promise."

Bucky narrows his eyes. Rogers doesn't look or smell homeless, but appearances can be deceiving. If he hadn't run into Natasha, he could be out on the streets, too. "That your coat?" 

"My dad's. After he died, I couldn't get rid of it. It seemed kind of sacrilegious. Family tradition."

Bucky thinks about that for a minute before he asks, "Did you follow the family tradition?"

He nods. "I served in Iraq for a few months before I got a stubborn case of pneumonia that decided to move into my lungs permanently." He grimaces. "You?"

"A-stan, until this happened." He tilts his head towards his shoulder. "Listen, I don't mean to be nosey or anything, but do you have a place to stay?"

Rogers' eyes open wide and he swallows hard. "You think I'm homeless?" He doesn't look angry, just amused and slightly embarrassed. "I've got a studio apartment about a block away, it's just … I'm not panhandling here, I just … " He sighs. "I'm not homeless, but I'm kind of broke. I can pay —" He starts digging into his jacket pocket.

Bucky grabs his arm and feels the hard, sharp bones beneath the jacket sleeve. "Hey, man. No. It's Christmas Eve." Rogers starts coughing again, that rattling, rough sound that kind of freaks Bucky out. "You need to go to the ER dude. That cough —"

"It's okay. Really." 

"It's not okay. C'mon. At least let me get you to the clinic around the corner. I know the doctor." He wonders why Rogers isn't taking advantage of the VA services. But then, recalling his experiences with the administration, he can't blame him. 

"It's Christmas Eve," Steve protests. 

"Bruce knows people get sick on Christmas. Let me call. If he's there, I'll walk you over." He's already dialing his phone. "Hey, Bruce. You still open? Nah, I'm fine. Got a sick friend, though. Can we come over?" There's a pause. "Yeah, I can bring you a fritter and coffee. See you in ten, okay?"

He pockets his phone. "Gotta make some more coffee. Stay there," he warns Rogers, who is looking a little dumbfounded by the whole thing. He doesn't try to dissuade him, however, and he's still sitting there nursing his coffee and trying not to cough while Bucky packs up the coffee and fritters. He grabs a hoodie and his jacket from the coat hooks. "Here. put this on."

Steve looks at the logo and raises a brow. "Seriously?"

Bucky feels his ears turning red. "It was a gift from my CO. Put it on under your jacket. You're not dying on my watch."

"It's only a block," Steve protests, but his hands reach out for the hoodie. He takes off his jacket, and pulls the hoodie over his shirt. Bucky swears he can see every rib. 

"Okay, Captain America, let's get you over to the doc's."

"W-why are you helping me?" Steve asks him. "I'm just a guy who was looking for coffee."

"I'm nice." 

"But you're —"

"Just because I only have one arm doesn't mean I have half a heart," Bucky says roughly. He knows that look in Rogers' eyes; the pity and reluctance to look at his empty sleeve. "C'mon, let's go."

Rogers' only reply is a long spell of coughing, which leaves him leaning against Bucky as they make their way down the street. "Kid, whatever you've got, it's bad."

"Sorry —" Rogers wheezes. "I didn't mean … I mean I'm sorry about your arm."

"Tell it to the Taliban," Bucky jokes lamely. "Okay, we're here." He pushes the clinic door open. Bruce is standing at the front desk. He takes one look at Steve and sighs. "I'm Dr. Bruce Banner. How long have you had that cough?"

"It seems like my whole life," Rogers croaks and goes off in another paroxysm as Bruce herds him into the examination room.

Bucky sits and waits. Ten minutes later, Bruce comes out, frowning. "He should be in the hospital. His lungs sound like sponges."

"Pneumonia?"

"You know I can't talk about his medical conditions with you."

"Conditions? That doesn't sound good."

"Does he have family?"

"I don't know."

"Friends?"

Bucky shrugs. "Sorry."

"How long have you known him?" Bruce asks, sounding exasperated.

Bucky scrubs a hand across his stubbled chin. "About an hour."

"Great. Come on. I'll drive him to the hospital."

Steve appears in the doorway. He's pale and clinging to the wall. "No. Just take me home." His chin juts out rebelliously and Bucky really shouldn't find that as hot as he does. 

Bruce glares, but he understands the subtext in Rogers' refusal. "You're not running a high fever, that's the _only_ reason I'm not calling 911." He scribbles out a couple of prescriptions, which he hands to Bucky. "I'll give him enough to get through Christmas day. The day after, get these filled."

"I can do that," Steve mutters.

"You're going home and to bed." Bruce admonishes. "Barnes, make sure he follows orders. You should both be good at that."

"You don't even know me." Steve protests weakly.

Bucky hands over his coat. "Come on, Rogers. You aren't going to win this argument with Doc Banner. He's one stubborn sonofabitch."

"It's Christmas Eve. You shouldn't be dragging me around." Steve coughs miserably. 

"It's not like I was planning to sit in front of a roaring fire with a mug of hot cocoa and watching the lights on my tree," Bucky holds out his coat. "Come on."

Bruce shrugs out of his lab coat. "I'm closing for the night. I'll drive you home. Both of you."

"Thanks, Doc. I appreciate it."

"I won't even charge you for it as long as you keep that appointment with Stark."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Rogers' apartment is on the second floor of a brownstone. The building is solid, but slightly run down, like most of the buildings on the street. There is a "For Rent" sign on the front door. Briefly, Bucky wonders how much the rent is, but right now, he has to get Rogers up the stairs safely.

He helps Steve out of Bruce's SUV and peers through the window at Bruce. "Thanks, Doc. I can walk home, really."

Bruce hands Bucky his card. "Text me if you need me. Pick up his prescriptions the day after tomorrow, and if he has trouble breathing or spikes a fever, call 911. I'm serious about that."

"Got it." 

Steve is wilting against the side of the SUV. Bucky waves Bruce off and wraps Rogers' arm around his waist. "I don't have real good balance with only one arm, but I think I can get you up the stairs. Ready?"

Steve nods. He looks weary and ill. As they start up the stairs, Bucky can tell Steve is trying not to lean heavily on him, still, he's very glad that Steve lives on the second floor and not the fifth. Rogers fumbles in his pocket and takes out his keys. 

Bucky plucks them from his fingers and props Rogers against the wall. He realizes that he can't turn the key and open the door. That requires two hands. He hands the keys back. "Sorry, I can't do the lock and the knob at the same time."

Steve pushes away from the wall and opens the door, nearly stumbling on his way inside. He hits a switch on the wall and the lights come on. "I'm okay," he wheezes from the effort of getting up the stairs. "You don't have to hang around. I can take care of myself."

Bucky ignores him and guides him inside and over to the couch, which is a sleeper sofa, open and hastily made. It's cold inside and he looks around. "Thermostat?"

"Boiler heat." 

Bucky sets a cautious hand on the radiator. It's barely warm. He checks the valves. They're stiff, and not open as wide as they ought to be. "You got a wrench?"

Steve blinks at him. "W-what?"

"A pipe wrench. You do know that these valves are almost closed?"

"I moved here in July. Guess I never noticed. Umm, there might be a wrench under the sink?"

Bucky looks, finds the wrench and gives the valves a careful turn. He doesn't want to strip the threads. To his relief, they move easily. Within a few minutes, the radiators are significantly warmer. He fills up a glass with water and looks at the dosage instruction with the pills from Dr. Banner. _Take with food_. He sighs. Rogers is in no condition to cook. 

He opens the refrigerator. Eggs, milk, a loaf of bread on the counter. He can work with that. He scrambles up two eggs and dishes them on two pieces of toast. "Is this all you've got to eat?" he asks as he sets the plate in front of Steve.

"You don't have to feed me," Steve objects.

"Yeah, I do. Because if I don't, you'll puke up all the medicine I'm about to give you."

"You're kind of bossy," Steve observes.

"I was a Sergeant in the Army. I bossed everybody around." He turns on Steve's tiny flat screenscreen TV and finds the Food Network, which doesn't require a lot of thought and provides some background noise. Steve is too sick to question his choice. He curls into the blankets, looking miserable and coughing like Camille. 

Bucky frowns at him. "The deli across the way is open until midnight. I'll get some soup and bread, more eggs and milk."

Steve looks slightly panic-stricken. "I don't have the money —"

"So, pay me back when you're better." He pretends not to see the sheen of tears in Rogers' very blue eyes. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Steve sighs and holds out the key to the front door. 

Bucky buys four cans of chicken noodle soup, apple sauce, orange juice, a loaf of bread, eggs, a box of chamomile tea, and a jar of peanut butter. It's not a lot of food, but he figures it will be a few days before Rogers will feel well enough for anything heavier. 

He makes his way back up the stairs and knocks. He hears shuffling steps and the door opens wide enough for Rogers to peek out. He takes the chain off and lets Bucky inside. He puts the milk, eggs and juice in the refrigerator and lines everything else up on the counter. He writes his phone number of the back of the receipt. 

He hands it to Rogers. "If you feel worse, call me. If you feel really awful, call 911 and have the medics call Dr. Banner."

Steve shakes his head. "No. You've done enough. Go home. There must be somebody waiting for you to call or something." His thin frame is wracked with a shiver. 

Bucky sighs. "Do you have a hot water bottle?"

"N-no. I have some heat packs that go in the microwave."

"Where?"

"In the ottoman." 

The ottoman opens for storage. Bucky pulls out a fleece blanket, a hoodie and the heat packs. "Put this on. Cover up with the blanket." He nukes the small heat packs and then tucks them around Rogers who looks warmer and has stopped coughing for the moment. 

That's it. He's done being a nursemaid, nanny, doctor. He's ready to go home even if there isn't anybody waiting for him to call. He boils water in the microwave, plops in a tea bag and makes a peanut butter sandwich. He adds a spoonful of honey to the tea and carries it, and the sandwich over to the coffee table. 

"Eat this in an hour, then take another pill. Then, for God's sake, get some sleep."

"I'm not six years old."

"And I'm not your nanny." Bucky's arm is making him grumpy. "If I don't hear from you tonight, I'll call around 9am."

"Don't. Don't feel any obligation. I'm just a stranger who walked into your coffee shop. Pretend you never met me and have a Merry Christmas."

"Fine. Merry Christmas," Bucky grumbles. He's halfway out the door when he hears a quiet voice. 

"Thank you, James."

He sighs. "Call me Bucky. That's okay. Sometimes, we all need a little help." He doesn't look back. 

It's nearly midnight when he gets back to his apartment. He strips off his shirt and goes into the bathroom. The overhead light is harsh, lighting the lines time and pain have carved at the corners of his mouth. His hair is lank, his cheeks sunken. God, he looks worse than Rogers. He purposely avoids the sight of his stump. 

He turns on the shower, grateful for the water pressure. Natasha upgraded the plumbing and electrical when she brought the building to make it suitable for the coffee shop, so it's steaming and will never run cold no matter how long Bucky stands under the shower-head. He washes his hair, scrubs the sweat from his body. He has a thick terry cloth robe Natasha "borrowed" from the Ritz at some point in her mysterious past, and he wraps it around himself gratefully then pours a stiff bourbon. _Hell of a day,_ he thinks as he settles on his sofa. He picks up his iPad and browses through his email — funny Christmas e-cards from Natasha, Jane and Darcy, and an appointment reminder to meet with Tony Stark the day after Christmas. There is a follow up message from Bruce telling him not to miss his appointment. Stark Industries biomechanical engineering division has a new prosthetic they think will work well for him. 

Bucky sighs and pictures the artificial limb he left in Bethesda. He doesn't know what would be easier; a functional prosthetic or just living his life one-handed. He takes a sip of his drink and the message notification on his tablet chimes. 

Bruce is asking about Steve. Bucky sends his reply. _Fed and medicated. Tucked in with his blanket and hot packs. I'll check in with him in the morning and call you._

Bruce responds with a Merry Christmas and a thank you. Bucky sometimes wonders how on earth he wound up here, accumulating friends, when all he has expected in his life was a lonely room and a minimum wage job. 

And now, he has Steve Rogers. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
He wakes up the next morning at eight, brews a cup of coffee, then goes downstairs to raid the pantry, returning with a blueberry muffin and two eggs. He scrambles the eggs and settles in to watch the morning news and eat his muffin. He has a whole day ahead of him, and nothing on his calendar — except that 9am call to Steve Rogers. 

Outside, the landscape is white. On any other day, the snow would have been trampled into puddles and cleared from the streets. Today, there aren't many people out, the streets are quiet and the snow is nearly untouched. It's still falling in big lazy flakes. It's a good day to stay inside. 

At 9am, he calls Rogers and waits. No answer. He's not terribly concerned. Rogers could be in the bathroom, could be still asleep. He'll try again at nine-thirty. He does, and still no answer. Crap. He has two choices: wait another thirty minutes or bundle up and walk the two blocks to Rogers' place to make sure he hadn't face-planted onto the hard tile floor of his bathroom. He decides he'd better bundle up. On his way out the door, he stops in the kitchen for another muffin and two of the mini breakfast stratas Natasha has in the freezer. He'll make more in the morning. She won't begrudge him the food. As an afterthought, he grabs a container of yesterday's tomato soup.

By now, the sidewalks have been cleared even though the snow is still falling. The air is fresh and cold, the city is still unusually quiet. He trudges up the three flights of stairs to Rogers' apartment and knocks on the door. "Rogers, are you in there?"

No answer. He goes back downstairs and rings the bell by the Super's name, Vadim Radzinski. A grouchy, heavily accented voice answers. "Vat you vant?"

"I need you to let me into Steve Rogers' apartment. I'm a friend and he was pretty sick last night. He's not answering his phone."

"Can't do that. Invasion of privacy."

"If you don't let me in, your privacy'll be invaded by the NYPD."

"Vait. I let you in." The super sounds angry and defeated, but a minute later the door is opened by a heavy man in a wife-beater, dirty flannel pajama bottoms and old man slippers. "You got ID?"

Bucky pulls out his dog tags and lets the man see his sleeve. "I'm not going to rob the guy. I just want to make sure he didn't die overnight."

The super scratches his armpit. "Okay. I get keys." He shuffles off and comes back mostly dressed. He trudges up the stairs, breathing heavily, and Bucky wonders if he'll have to call 911 for two men. 

"Mr. Rogers? Is Vadim. I come in. Don't shoot."

Bucky gapes. "Shoot?"

Vadim shrugs. "Is rough neighborhood." He turns the key in the lock and opens the door. The chain is on, but Bucky reaches through the narrow opening and unlatches it. The door swings open. 

"Steve?"

He looks in. Steve is huddled under the blankets. His cell phone is on the table and Bucky presses the on button. It's dead. No wonder he didn't answer the phone. He's still sleeping, the blanket pulled up to his chin, his long eyelashes quivering slightly. His lungs are still rattling, but not like they had been yesterday. 

"Thank you, Mr. Radzinski. I'll stay with him now."

"He is good kid. Bad lungs but a good kid." He shakes his head and leaves. 

Bucky finds K-cups for the coffeemaker and brews a cup. He settles in the worn recliner and waits. He can't help watching Rogers sleep. He's too pretty for his own good with those long eyelashes, soft mouth and blond hair falling over his forehead. He's saved from femininity by his strong jaw shadowed with stubble and his slightly crooked nose. It looks like it was broken at some point in the past. He has a small scar at the corner of his mouth, and another at his hairline. They're too old to have been acquired while Steve was in the army. 

Bucky sighs and looks at his watch. He'll have to wake Rogers up in an hour to eat and take his meds. Meanwhile, he's not cold-hearted enough to disturb him. He looks around the apartment. There are canvases everywhere. Sketches of landscapes, portraits, watercolors. They're all different, but clearly by the same artist. Each one is signed with a tiny distinctive SR. Steve Rogers. Why is a guy with talent like this living in a walk-up in a dicey neighborhood in Brooklyn? He finds himself drawn to an incredibly detailed pen and watercolor sketch of a row of brownstone houses. It reminds him of where he grew up, just a few blocks and a world away from Les Trois Demoiselles. It still makes him smile. 

He hears a rustle of bedding and turns to find Rogers blinking up at him. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Your super let me in. Your phone is dead."

"Sorry." He sits up and scrubs his hand over his face. "You shouldn't have gone through that much trouble." He coughs, groans and falls back against the pillows. 

"You need to eat before you take your next dose of antibiotics." He pops the muffin in the microwave and makes a cup of black tea with plenty of sugar. When the muffin is warm, he spreads butter on it and carries it over to Rogers. Steve pushes himself upright again and slowly starts eating. 

"So, you're an artist," Bucky says. 

"Yeah, kind of a starving artist at the moment. I'm getting ready for a gallery show. Hopefully, that will take me out of the starving category for a few months."

"You're good. I mean, I don't know a lot about art, but I know what I like."

"That's what most people say. They're usually being kind."

"It was a compliment."

"I know." Steve pushes the plate aside. "I want to clean up."

"Take your meds, first." Bucky hands the pills to Steve. "I'll get to the pharmacy tomorrow for the prescriptions."

"No," Steve says firmly. "They deliver. You've done enough. Don't you have to work, anyway?"

"My hours are flexible as long as I get things going by six. Darcy comes in at six-thirty to get the pastries baking, Jane is in at seven. Natasha comes in whenever she wants — not that she slacks off — more often than not she's in when I am." He turns to Steve. "Get cleaned up. The medicine works best when it's taken on time."

"Yes, sir." 

Bucky hates it when people say that. It makes him faintly nauseous, but there's no way Rogers could know that. He looks out at the snow and listens to the sound of running water. It cuts off and a few minutes later, Steve comes out of the bathroom. He's wearing jeans and a light blue sweater. He doesn't look as thin as he did the night before, just like a guy who could use a month or two of high-calorie meals. There are still dark shadows under his eyes, and the lingering pallor of illness on his cheeks. 

Bucky hands him the medications. "I'm under strict orders to make sure you take these as prescribed."

"How do you know Dr. Banner?" 

"He's a regular at the shop. He's helped me a lot, more than the VA was able to do."

"What happened … I mean, you know …" His voice fades uncertainly. "Sorry, that's incredibly bad manners on my part."

"I was in a convoy that rolled over an IED. I had the bad luck to be in the lead vehicle. I lost two men — which was a lot worse than losing my arm. I wish there had been a trade-off." The admission hurts like a knife, but he's not about to show Rogers that bleeding part of him. He shrugs it off, "But, hey. I'm alive, which is okay most of the time."

Steve winces. "Only most of the time?"

"As Sam, my VA counselor, would say, it's a process." He doesn't look at Rogers; he doesn't want to see the sympathy in his eyes. He picks up his coat. "Okay, I've done my duty, so I'll get out of here."

"You could stay, if you don't have plans, that is. Remind me to take my meds, watch a game on TV. Have some of that gourmet canned soup?" His blue eyes are hopeful, even if he's blushing fiercely, and Bucky has never been about kicking puppies. 

He laughs, "Sure, why not? Best offer I've had all day." He has no idea why he agrees to stay. It just feels like the right thing to do. It's not like he has big plans or anything, and Rogers looks so damn hopeful. He probably does need somebody to remind him to eat and take his medicine. 

They fold up the sofa-bed, so it's more sofa than bed and Bucky orders Steve - he's not thinking of him as 'Rogers', when he's sitting on the guy's bed — to park his butt on the cushions and stay there while he runs across the street to the deli to buy the Times, saltines and ginger ale. He knows how antibiotics can tear up a stomach even when taken as directed. 

By the time he gets back, Steve's burst of energy has burned itself out and he's sleeping, curled into the corner of the couch. He's not a small guy, but he looks oddly vulnerable. Bucky sighs and covers him with a red, white and blue afghan. He settles in on the other end of the sofa and starts on the Times. 

He's about halfway through when his phone alerts him to a text. He looks at it and smiles. Natasha. [Merry Christmas, James. Enjoying your day off?]

[Maybe?]

[UR not sure?]

[Sitting with a sick friend.]

[U have a friend not working at 3D?] He can imagine the arch of Natasha's brow.

[Steve Rogers. U know him?]

[Skinny asthmatic artist?]

[Why haven't I met him?]

[Why? Is he your type?] He's willing to bet Natasha is smirking at him. And what the fuck did she mean by that comment?

Annoyed, he ends the call and turns his phone off. The last thing he needs is a stream of texts from Darcy, who is sure to be on the phone as soon as she opens her presents. He'll call Bruce when Steve wakes up so he can talk to his patient without Bucky's third party intervention.

He settles in with the Times. It's after noon when he starts heating up the stratas and the leftover tomato soup. The fragile cheese crisps didn't survive the night, but the soup will still taste as good. 

As he's stirring the soup, he hears Steve get up, then water running in the bathroom. When Steve comes into the kitchen, there's some color on his cheeks and he doesn't look as bruised and ill as he had earlier. The antibiotics seem to be working. 

"You look better," he observes. 

Steve stretches and Bucky tries not to look at the narrow band of flesh showing below the hem of Steve's sweater. "I feel better. I can breathe again."

"Don't stop taking those antibiotics." 

"Trust me, I'm familiar with the routine. That smells amazing," he says.

"Darcy's breakfast strata and tomato soup. She pretends she only does pastry but she's a trained chef. Sometimes I wonder why she's at the coffee shop and not at a five star restaurant."

"What does she say?"

"That she likes being the big fish in the small pond." He serves up the stratas and pours soup into mugs. They sit at Steve's tiny bistro table with a view of the brick wall of the building next door and a small slice of the Manhattan skyline. "So, tell me about this gallery showing."

"The gallery show is important — not in size but in reputation. I've been pulling all-nighters to preparing for it. I guess I over did it." He looks around at the canvases. "I'm behind schedule."

"Don't work yourself into the hospital. Neither Bruce nor I would appreciate it."

"Scout's honor." Steve's bright eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, and Bucky is _gone_. So gone. 

"When is this show?"

"New Year's Eve."

"Really? And people will be there?"

"There's a champagne toast at midnight, so I hope so. And I hope they buy enough to keep me in groceries and antibiotics for a while." He gives Bucky a wry grin. 

"Who's invited?"

"The sponsor is Stark Industries. Their CEO, Pepper Potts, used to buy art for Tony Stark's corporate collection. She saw some of my art on the walls at the coffee shop a few months ago and offered this gallery show. I was kind of floored."

Bucky chokes on his soup. "Seriously? Bruce has been been trying to get me to talk to Stark about a new prosthetic. Stark has a standing order for Darcy's raspberry white chocolate scones and endless cups of lattes." 

"It seems like we would have met eventually, and maybe I wouldn't have been coughing up a lung." Steve smiles again, then blushes slightly. "Umm, I don't know if this is your kind of thing, and if it's not, I understand, but would you like to come to the opening?"

Bucky's eyes narrow. "As an invited guest?"

Steve takes a breath, but doesn't look away. "Either as that, or as my … umm, date?"

Bucky's breath hitches. In his mind, as much as he tries to hide it, he's damaged goods. He's become used to thinking he's not worthy of more than a passing glance, become used to the stares and occasional taunts, to sympathetic smiles and apologies. "A date?"

Steve shrugs like it's no big deal. "Listen, I don't know you, but I … I kinda like you. It was worth a shot, asking — but that doesn't mean if a date isn't your thing that I wouldn't want you there as a guest."

Bucky stands abruptly. "You don't want to date me. You don't want to know me."

"What are you talking about?"

Bucky's stomach hurts, but he owes Steve the truth about what he was and what he is. "Look, Steve. I'm no good for you — for anybody. Do you know what I did in the Army? I was a sniper. I _killed_ people. It doesn't matter that they were my enemies, I still took their lives. When I came back from a job, even the guys in my unit shied away from me, like my shadow was death. I'm still fucked up about that. And then, this happened." He gestures to his missing arm. "It's ugly, Steve. Even if Stark fixes me up with a decent prosthetic, at the end of the day, it will still be ugly, and I'll still be a killer." 

He can't stay here, not with Steve looking at him with those wide, sorrowful eyes. He balls up his napkin and stands up. "Keep your illusions, just don't tell me I'm better than I am." He pulls on his jacket and turns back long enough to say one more thing, "Take your antibiotics."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky has nightmares for the next three days, waking up on the floor, dreaming he's crawling through his own blood in a futile attempt to save one of his men. It hadn't happened like that; his head injury had been severe enough that he was knocked unconscious even as he nearly bled out, but his dreams don't acknowledge that fact. He still wakes up on the floor, his throat raw and his body shivering. It's progressively worse until on the third night, he ends up hanging on to the rim of his toilet and puking until he's dry heaving. 

It's nearly dawn as he drags himself down to the coffee shop. He grinds coffee, starts the ovens, counts the previous night's cash and puts the deposit together. He can barely see straight, his hand is trembling and his head feels like there's an axe buried to the hilt in it. 

At six, Jane arrives for her early shift, gives him a horrified look and orders him up to bed. Jane is all of five foot nothing and weighs less than a hundred pounds, but she stamps her foot when he starts to object, and threatens to sick Natasha on him if he doesn't go upstairs _right now!_. Bucky knows when he's defeated. 

He hauls himself up the stairs and collapses on his bed. He needs sleep, but he can't risk dreams that would disturb anybody downstairs. He channel surf for a while, avoiding the news. He picks up his phone, wondering exactly how to apologize to Steve for being such an asshole. Seriously, he does want to know that Steve has gotten his prescriptions. Maybe he can say Bruce asked him to call. Then he mocks himself for being a damned coward.

He goes downstairs at eight, avoiding Jane. It's Darcy's day off so he figures he's safe to take the remainder of yesterday's muffins. It's the best he can do as a peace offering. He bundles up in his jacket and scarf and sneaks out the back entrance. 

An elderly woman is leaving the apartment building as Bucky arrives, he holds the door for her, then slips inside, grateful that he didn't have to stand in the lobby stuttering out excuses for suddenly appearing on the doorstep. It's bad enough when he's at Steve's door. He knocks, and waits. 

"Who's there?" Steve asks, suspicion in his voice.

"Your dumbass of a Good Samaritan."

"Sorry, I don't know any dumb asses. I might know a Good Samaritan, however." The door opens, and Steve is standing there. He's wearing a blue sweater that makes his eyes even more blue than Bucky remembers. He looks gorgeous, and much better than he had three days ago.

He frowns at Bucky. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought muffins," Bucky waves the bag. "And apologies."

Steve holds out his hand and pulls Bucky into the apartment. "It's freezing out there. Why aren't you at work?"

"Umm … Jane sent me away. I guess she thought I'd scare the customers."

"I can see why. Are you sick?"

"No. Just … I haven't been sleeping well, and I didn't want to risk having a nightmare on the premises."

Steve's brow lifts, "So you came here?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to the super about an apartment. There's a sign up. How's the rent?"

"It's New York," Steve shrugs. "I worked for Pepper Potts as an art conservator over the summer and she paid me more than I was worth. I saved enough to cover my rent until spring." 

"Mind if I make a run down to see Vadim about that apartment?"

"I'm good," Steve says. "I'm down to one coughing fit an hour." 

"Did the pharmacy deliver your meds?"

"Yeah. Don't worry. I won't die before New Years Eve, neighbor."

Bucky smiles slightly. "I'm not your neighbor, yet."

"But you will be." Steve's smile makes Bucky think that he would sign the papers before he's even seen the apartment.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The apartment is bigger than Steve's; a one bedroom with a view of the city from the tiny kitchen window. The window in the living room faces across the street. The bathroom has been recently redone with subway tiles in the shower and white and black vinyl flooring. The bedroom is big enough for a queen size bed and a chest of drawers. 

He doesn't know if he can afford it. "What's the rent?" he asks Vadim.

"I ask my cousin. He is landlord. He was in war, like you. He has one leg. He maybe give you a break. I call."

Bucky waits while Vadim speaks in rapid Russian to his cousin. He finally closes the phone and names a price that is ridiculous by New York standards, but will still stretch Bucky's budget. He decides to risk it because he knows that if he doesn't by morning the apartment will go to somebody willing to pay the full price. "I'll take it," he says and signs the lease with his heart in his throat.

Once it's done, Vadim hands him the keys and leaves. Bucky stands looking out of the window, _his window_. He's never had a place that was completely his. He grew up in public housing projects in the south Bronx. In college, he had roommates - sometimes more than one, and then in the Army, he didn't even have a billet, just a tent or a sleeping bag depending on where they were at any given time. Now he has an apartment, a job, rent, and a downstairs neighbor who he really, really wants to get to know better.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
When he returns to the coffee shop Natasha is standing at the door with her hands on her hips and an unhappy scowl on her face. "Why aren't you at Stark?" she asks. "Pepper called and Tony is not happy."

"I - I forgot?" Bucky stammers. It's a lame-ass excuse and Natasha catches the lie quickly. She knows him too well. 

"I'm not buying that, James. Where were you?"

He takes a breath. Better to tell her quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "I was looking at an apartment."

Tasha's brow rises. "Why?"

"Come on, Tasha. You had to know I wasn't going to stay on indefinitely. I could tell the upstairs studio was a _pied a terre_ for you. Plus, that single bed is just too damn small. I can't get comfortable."

"So?"

"I found a one bedroom apartment down the block. The rent is okay and I'll be out of the way, but still close enough to be here at the crack of dawn." He doesn't add that it's one floor up from Steve Rogers' place. That would just be fodder for Natasha and Darcy's imaginations. "I can't move in until after the first of the year, so I'll be here through the holidays."

"Get over to Stark Industries before Tony has a fit. He's got some good things to show you."

"Yeah, sure." He sounds doubtful. 

"You really have no idea, do you?" Natasha gives him a pitying look. "Go. Be amazed."

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he catches the subway to the gleaming skyscraper that houses Stark Industries. The lobby is marble with a long trench that is a fountain during the summer, but in the winter is a river of gas flames. It is stunningly beautiful. A receptionist is sitting at a console that looks like it belongs on the Starship Enterprise. She even resembles Uhura. Bucky, in his worn jeans and scarred leather jacket, with his conspicuously absent arm, feels out of his element. She smiles at him. 

"Can I help you?"

"My name is James Barnes. I have an appointment with Mr. Stark."

Her smile warms. "Of course, Mr. Barnes. Mr. Stark is waiting for you in his lab on lower level three. His assistant will be here to escort you in a moment. 

"Thank you," Bucky says and she nods, as the phone begins ringing. He waits until a thin, blond young man in a lab coat approaches him. 

"Mr. Barnes?"

"Yes."

"I'm Leo Fitz, Mr. Starks assistant. Biomechanical engineer. I've been working on your prosthetic. Tony is very excited -- but then he's always excited about inventions." Fitz speaks rapidly in a Scottish accent. James just nods and follows him to an elevator that requires a key card to access. 

They ride down, Fitz talking about everything but Bucky's arm. When the doors open, they are in a wide white corridor. Bucky can hear the faint hiss of air scrubbers. Of course, with all the sensitive tech around the area would have to be spotless and dust free. Otherwise, the sound would be somewhat alarming. Fitz uses his card to open a door with a plaque on the wall reading _Biomechanical Laboratory. Limited access._

The door opens into a room with tile floors, stainless steel tables and walls of monitoring equipment that are lit up like Christmas trees. Tony Stark is standing at a table covered by a surgical drape concealing several arm-shaped lumps. Stark's jeans are as worn as Bucky's and he's wearing an AC/DC t-shirt under a white lab coat. Welding goggles are perched on top of his disordered hair, He looks like a slightly mad scientist. "Nice of you to show up, Barnes," he comments acidly.

"Sorry. I was renting an apartment. Took longer than I expected."

"Don't apologize. Just don't blow me off without letting me know, okay?"

"Deal."

Stark suddenly smiles and the temperature in the room seems to rise with the warmth of his expression. "Great. Let's get started." He whips the sheet off the table like a magician unveiling a trick. He's a showman all right. 

There are four prosthetic arms in front of him. One is like the original one Bucky abandoned at the VA hospital. The second is covered with some sort of synthetic skin, but still doesn't look much different from the first, other than the hand actually looks like a hand and not like a hook. Bucky has seen the third one on a YouTube video of a soldier who had an injury similar to Bucky's; it's an experiment and looks like it takes a lot of work to get it to interface with the nerves remaining in the stump. 

The fourth arm is unlike anything Bucky has seen before. It's made of metal plates that interlock like armor. The fingers are covered with a black fabric glove that has sensor-like pads on the tips. Bucky is drawn to it. He wants to touch it, to feel the plates and touch the fingers. He bites his lip. "Okay."

"This first one is from the VA. Standard issue for a first prosthetic. It's ugly, uncomfortable, and heavy, as you know since it's the one you left behind. I don't blame you, it's a mess. The one next to it is a step up in that it operates with solenoid technology. It's more responsive and looks less alarming, but it's still crude technology compared to what we have now. The third one is undergoing --"

"If there's a point to this history lesson, get to it," Bucky growls. "I know this stuff."

"Fine. Not everybody does. The question is: Which one do you want?"

Bucky smiles. "Tell me about this one --" He points to the last arm. "Now that is cool."

Stark grins. "I thought you'd like that. It's my favorite, but then it's the one I designed."

Bucky swallows. "Yeah, I figured. How does it work?"

"Proprietary tech which you probably won't understand, but trust me, it works like nothing else you've ever seen or used. Can I see your arm?"

Bucky is suddenly reluctant to show Stark what's left of his arm. Tony's eyes darken with sympathy. "I can help you," he said quietly, "but you have to help me."

Bucky swallows what little spit he has and takes off his jacket, then his thermal henley, then his undershirt. He doesn't look at Tony. Stark's fingers are warm and gentle. He makes a small sound and sighs. "They did a number on you," he says, "but I can work with this. The question is, can you work with me? It's not going to be easy; and might require some surgery to implant the neural interfaces."

"How much surgery? I can't miss work."

"You'll be paid," Tony says. "It's a research project. Plus, Stark Industries covers any and all medical expenses. Nothing but the best."

Bucky wants to object, he wants to say he's not worth it, but he swallows the knot in his throat. "This tech, if it works, I want it to be for guys like me; veterans who lost limbs in combat and who need to feel whole again."

"Scout's honor, that's what I intended. Believe me, I'm not doing this for personal gain, at least not the monetary kind. You know I was held for ransom?"

"Yeah."

"The military saved my ass, so I owe them. I owe guys like you. Can I ask you to do one thing for me?"

"What?"

"Start a blog. Document the process from your point of view."

"Okay." He has no idea how to do this, but he can ask and he can learn. "Are we done?"

"Done? We're just getting started. Fitz is going to take some readings from the nerve endings in your arm; it won't hurt but it might be uncomfortable. Then, we'll see how to fit the arm to you. That won't be fun for you, but I've got some good drugs from Dr. Banner --"

"You know Bruce?"

"There's a reason his clinic is free," Tony says quietly. "What's the use of having all the money in the world if you can't do something worthwhile with it?" He's starting to place leads on his arm and chest, then speaks into what seems like thin air. "Fitz, we're ready for you."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Stark didn't lie. It takes three hours, a lot of discomfort and not inconsiderable pain for the testing to be complete. The neural tests didn't hurt, per se, but they felt like little jolts of electricity fizzing along his nerves; some sharp, some dull, and there was no pattern to them so he could brace against the more uncomfortable ones. The physical exam is painful and exhausting. Fitz and Stark work on the fitting of the arm and by the time they're finished, Bucky's neck, back and shoulders are knotted up with tension and his headache is back with a vengeance. Stark and Fitz seem satisfied, however, and Bucky has to admit that he's more hopeful than he has been for a long time. 

Fitz helps him into his shirt and jacket as Stark fiddles with something on a tablet. When he's dressed, Stark puts the tablet down. "That's it for today. We got some valuable information to give us a start. Come back next week?"

"I sure as fuck didn't go through this to walk away," Bucky says roughly. 

Tony barks out a laugh. "I like you, Barnes." He claps Bucky on his good shoulder. "I'll have a driver take you home."

"I can catch the subway."

"Not on my watch. If you feel as worn out as you look, you'll never make it. Take the offer, Barnes. You've earned it."

Clearly, this is an argument that Bucky isn't going to win. He surrenders gracefully and follows Fitz down to the lobby. Even though the "ride" is a limo with deep leather seat cushions that cradle Bucky's aching body, he's grateful that it's a short trip back to the coffee shop, he's on the verge of sleep as it is. His phone buzzes as they pull up at the curb. He thanks the driver, gets out and reads the text from Steve. 

[Thought you were coming back?] 

[Sorry. Natasha made me see Stark.]

[And?]

[I rented the apartment.]

There is a moment's pause. [That's my second question. How did it go with Stark?]

[Fine, but I'm wiped. Think I'll make it an early night. Taking your meds?]

[Yeah. I feel good - well, better than I did. I got some work done.]

['night, Steve.]

['night, Bucky.]

It's such an entirely normal exchange that Bucky marvels that they've only known each other for three days.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

He takes a hot shower, two of Dr. Banner's pain pills, and brews a cup of tea. He's out before the tea cools and doesn't wake until his alarm goes off at 6am. His head still hurts and his neck is stiff from sleeping on the couch. His stump is aching, but it's manageable. He doesn't want to move, but he drags himself out of bed, brews coffee and downs three ibuprofen, which won't make him sleepy like Banner's drugs. 

He pulls on jeans, boots, a long-sleeved thermal shirt and a dark blue sweater. He ties his hair back and goes downstairs to start the day. Darcy looks at him and immediately dishes out a bowl of her famous overnight oatmeal. "Eat this," she orders, and Bucky, as much as he dislikes oatmeal takes it from her. She gives him a bowl of brown sugar and raisins. "Stir this in." Then she drizzles warm cream over the surface. 

Bucky, after one swallow, decides Darcy is a goddess of culinary perfection. The oatmeal is sweet, creamy, warming, and comforting. It settles his stomach and he sighs. "Thank you."

"Dude, you can't do this to yourself."

"What?"'

"Party, party, party."

Bucky nearly chokes with laughter. "You think I was drinking?"

"You don't party?"

"Not so much." 

Darcy pats his arm. "Then maybe you should. Eat your oatmeal."

Natasha arrives at seven, and after checking with Darcy on they day's menu, pours two cups of coffee. "How was it?" she asks.

"On a scale awfulness from one to ten … about an eleven."

She makes a soft moue of sympathy. "Was it worth it?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. Right now, everything hurts."

"You should take the day off."

"Don't coddle me," he warns. "I'm not a charity project."

"I wouldn't do that, _khrabroye serdtse_."

Bucky doesn't think of himself as having a particularly brave heart, but hearing it from Natasha makes his chest ache. " _Spasibo, Natalyia._ He kisses her hand. "But I can work today, really."

"You can work until two, after that, I'm cutting you off."

"I'm not a workaholic, either. " Natasha just laughs at him over her shoulder. 

Bucky covers the lunch hour for Jane, who has an examination and will come in later than usual. He's busy enough that he can ignore the ache in his arm for a few hours. He's about to count down the lunch register when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out and reads it, smiling. 

[Meds taken. All clear from Dr. Banner. You're officially off the hook.]

[What if I don't want to be?]

[Not my problem. I need to work. Still on for NYE?]

[Definitely.]

[Call me.]

[Later. You're not the only one who has to work.]

He counts down the drawer, puts the cash in the safe and takes it out to Darcy just as Natasha reappears. "Yasha, your shift is over."

Since he's been back, she's only called him Yasha twice, and it's not a term of endearment. He steps away from the register with his hand raised in surrender. She shakes her head and her expression softens. "Get some rest."

It's pointless to argue. There is a back door, but he wouldn't put it past Natasha to have one of her spies watching it. It's the only explanation for the all-seeing eye of hers. He admits to exhaustion and goes upstairs to the apartment. In a few days, he won't live here anymore, but it's not like he has to do anything but pack up his belongings. He doesn't have much to take with him than his clothes and toiletries … and a medicine cabinet full of drugs he's reluctant to take. 

He settles on the couch, wraps himself in the afghan Natasha left on the back of the sofa, turns the TV on low, and despite himself, falls asleep until it's almost dark. He sits up, feeling groggy and hungry. The pain in his arm has eased to the point that two ibuprofen knock it out completely. He texts Steve, asking if he's hungry. 

[R U buying?]

[I might be convinced. What should I get?]

[Pizza from DiBella's?]

He knows DiBella's. It's half a block and he can pick it up in twenty minutes. [What do you like?]

[No green peppers or anchovies.]

[Pepperoni, sausage, mushroom?]

[Perfect. See you soon]

Bucky grins, unaccountably happy, and calls DiBella's with the order. Twenty minutes later, true to his word, he's standing at Steve's door. He rings, and is buzzed in. 

Steve meets him on the stairs. He looks much better than he did, wearing jeans that fit perfectly, a red t-shirt and gray hoodie. His eyes are clear and his breathing is regular and easy. "I'm _starving_!" 

Bucky holds out the pizza. "Take this." He's juggling the box, and a bag of cheesy bread. Not easy with one hand. Steve takes the pizza and inhales happily. 

"Smells wonderful."

"Yeah, and you didn't have to carry it over." They go inside and Steve looks at him, a vaguely guilty expression on his face. 

"I should have had it delivered."

"No, man. I'm good. Just really, really hungry. I haven't eaten much since yesterday."

"Was it bad?"

"It wasn't fun. The details are boring," he finishes. "Let's eat."

While Steve gets plates, Bucky looks around at the paintings and sketches. There are more now than there had been, including one on an easel of the neighborhood in a snowstorm. There is a figure, barely glimpsed through the falling snow, trudging along, head bowed. In the angle of the figure, Steve has captured the struggle, the perseverance, the weary to the bone dedication to the mission — Bucky's brain stops there because he sees that the figure is wearing a khaki jacket with the sleeve pinned up. 

He turns and finds Steve standing behind him. "Is that me?"

Steve swallows. "Some of it. If you don't like it, I won't put it in the show."

Bucky shakes his head. "No. No, it's amazing. How do you see what I feel? How do you — Fuck, I don't know, paint that?"

Steve shrugs. "I just paint. And it's not just you I painted. It's every soldier who comes back and has to struggle to make it through life. I wanted people to see then. You don't mind that I picked you to be the model?"

"I never thought of myself like that, but … yeah. That's what it's like. People should see the truth."

Steve looks relieved. He takes a breath. "Well, this pizza is getting cold, so let's eat."

Later, warm and full; feeling more _real_ than he has in a long time, Bucky lets himself relax and be at ease in Steve's company. They watch _Pacific Rim_ , talk about why they like the movie, and what they don't. Steve loves the robots, Bucky likes the _kaiju_ because he's a sucker for dinosaurs. 

Steve laughs. "Next time, _Godzilla_."

"New or old?"

"Both." 

Bucky grins. "You're on. So, what time should I be here on New Years Eve?"

"I have to be at the gallery really early in the day to oversee the installation. You should probably take a taxi." He gives Bucky the address. 

"What should I wear? I don't have a suit or anything … " It sounds pathetic, but it's the truth. He hasn't had the time or the inclination to shop. Losing an arm will do that to you. 

"I'm wearing jeans and a sweater. I'm the artist. I can wear anything I damn well please."

Bucky grins. "Jeans, I can do." It doesn't escape him that Steve is doing this for his comfort and ease. Steve's blue eyes are shining with trust, and Bucky won't, he can't, disappoint him. "I should get going and let you work."

"I'm pretty much done. You can stay if you like."

He does want to stay, but at the same time, he wants to lie down and sleep. He doesn't think Steve is ready to deal with his night terrors. "Nah, I have to get up at an insane hour. If I stayed, I'd never wake up in time." He holds out his hand, "Thanks, Steve. I'll see you at the gallery."

"Don't stand me up," Rogers warns, and Bucky grins. 

"Never." He winds his scarf around his throat. "Don't work too hard."

Steve looks around at the paintings and drawings that are on nearly every surface. "I'm counting down the hours, now."

Bucky doesn't know if he's referring to the gallery opening or their "date," so on that note, he leaves.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Stark texts him early in the day on New Year's Eve. He needs to see Bucky. When Natasha sees the look on his face, and he shows her the text, she says, "Go. You need to do this, James." She kisses his cheek. "We'll close early tonight."

Stark himself meets him at the reception desk. "Fitz and I have your prosthetic."

"I thought surgery was involved."

"I won't lie. It may be, but you have enough intact nerve endings that you could have eighty to ninety percent functionality without it. It will take therapy to get it to that point, but consider this a test run."

Bucky thinks of the evening, of what a relief it would be not to have his sleeve pinned up, to look vaguely normal again. "Let's do it," he says, and Stark grins. 

They go down to the lab where Fitz is waiting, along with a very pretty brown-haired woman. She holds out her hand, "I'm Gemma Simmons."

"Gemma did the actual design of the arm and the way it will fit to your body. She's a genius," Fitz says, and Bucky has to smother his smile behind his hand because young Fitz is clearly smitten.

Bucky takes off his jacket and shirt. Simmons sets a small, warm hand on his back. "If this hurts at all, or is uncomfortable, let me know right away. It might need some adjusting."

Bucky nods and feels the smooth cup slide over his stump. It's made of some sort of malleable substance that warms quickly and seems to seal itself to the muscles in his arm. "Is there a harness?" he asks.

"No," Gemma replies. "That is what makes this prosthetic so unique. "The material forms a perfect contact and seal with your muscles and nerves. Try moving it … carefully."

Bucky thinks about straightening his arm, and there are a few seconds of lag time before the limb responds. He thinks about his wrist, and the prosthetic responds. "It's … It's amazing," he says. 

"The more you use it, the easier and more quickly it will respond. If you decide to have the surgery, we hope you will have actual sensation in your fingers."

Bucky opens and closes his fingers. "It's unbelievable." 

"How do you feel about the appearance?"

It doesn't look like a human arm, but it looks cool. The flexible plates move soundlessly against each other, the sheen of the metal is mesmerizing. "What if I want to take it off?"

"That is more complicated," Gemma says. "Is it uncomfortable?"

Bucky thinks about it. "No. It feels all right. Just different."

"Do you think you can wear it until the day after New Year's? Unless, of course, it starts causing you real discomfort. If it does, call me immediately." She hands him a card with her name and phone number on it. "Don't hesitate."

Bucky nods. "I'll give it a shot."

"Good." She smiles brilliantly. "I must say that it looks very sexy."

Bucky blinks at her and makes a slightly strangled sound. "Umm … thanks?"

"You're welcome. Happy New Year, Sergeant Barnes."

It's not who he is any more, but he has enough manners not to correct her. He's not a sergeant and he hasn't felt worthy of attention since the day he came to terms with the knowledge that he wasn't going to wake up whole and healed. He starts putting on his jacket and then stops; because it's been _so_ long since he had an arm to put through a sleeve, that he panics, thinking he's forgotten how and will have to be shown how to do it, like a two year old learning for the first time. 

"Easy," Tony says. "Give your arm time to catch up to your brain." 

Bucky takes a deep breath and thinks about the motions; tentatively, because his brain tells him it should hurt even though it doesn't. His arm moves, reaches back. Tony holds the jacket and Bucky slides his arm into the sleeve, shrugging into the coat. 

To his consternation, his eyes fill with tears that spill down his cheeks. He wipes them away quickly, ashamed of them. Tony's hand firms on his shoulder. "You're okay, Barnes."

Bucky swallows his tears. "Thank you."

"It's what I do. So, take care of it. Come back on the second and we'll do some neural tests. Meanwhile, the more you use it, the better it will work. The goal is to get to the point where you don't have to think about how it's supposed to move."

Bucky flexes the fingers again. Tony's right. The lag time is decreasing. He smiles in wonder. "Happy New Year, Mr. Stark."

"Tony. You're wearing my tech, you call me Tony. Do you need a ride?"

"Not today. I think I'll walk." He shakes Tony's hand and leaves the lab. His body feels balanced, and he flexes the arm, marveling at how quickly the interfaces are reacting to his thoughts. When he raises his arm to catch the door without being consciously aware of doing it, he stops dead in his tracks and laughs. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
On the subway, nobody looks at him in pity, he realizes. His sleeve covers the metal arm, and he has a leather glove over the hand. He's just a guy in jeans and a jacket on his way home on New Years Eve. 

He's become so used to having only one arm, he has to remember to use the prosthetic, but when he does, the movement is smooth, if still slightly slower than flesh and blood. He gets off at his stop and jogs to Les Trois Demoiselles. Natasha is at the register when he comes in. She raises a brow and tilts her head towards the back room. "Darcy, can you take the register?"

"Sure," Darcy comes from behind the behemoth espresso machine and smiles at Bucky. "Hey, Bucky. Happy New Ye …" Her eyes widen. "Oh, my God … "

He shrugs and tries to hide his smile. "Bit of a change, I guess." 

"Well, yeah." She takes a walk around him. "Lookin' good, Bucky." She winks and saunters back towards the kitchen.

Natasha grabs his jacket sleeve. "Come on. I want to see it."

When they are in the office, Bucky pulls off his glove and lets his jacket slide from his shoulders. Natasha waits until he rolls up the cuff of his shirt. Her eyes widen. "Can I touch it?"

"Sure."

He watches her slim, pale fingers stroke over the metal and he shivers. "Can you feel that?" Natasha asks.

"Not exactly. I can feel something on the arm, but it's not like if you were touching skin. It's more of a pressure."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. Look … " He flexes his fingers and she laughs in delight. 

"I told you Stark was amazing, didn't I?"

"You said I had no idea; and you were right."

"We should go out to celebrate." When he doesn't answer, she looks at him with narrowed eyes. "Yasha, are you blushing?"

Fuck. He is. "Umm. I have a thing to go to."

Her eyebrow arches. "A thing? As in a date?"

"Steve Rogers asked me to his gallery opening."

"As a guest or as a _date_?"

"Isn't that a little personal?"

"You think there are those boundaries between us?"

He owes her the truth. "Okay, a date. But if you tell Darcy all bets are off."

She claps her hands and laughs delightedly. "Oh, this is good. So good." She hugs him, and for the first time since he came here, he wraps his arms around her in response. "Happy New Year, _khrabroye serdtse_." She kisses his cheek. 

"Help me pick something to wear?" he asks. 

She sighs. "What are you, six?" She pats his arm, which feels odd, but good. "Okay, let's see what the choices are."

"Limited. Very limited."

"We should shop," she announces and Bucky suddenly can't breathe. 

"No!" He struggles to keep the panic from his breath. He's not ready to strip himself in front of strangers, in front of a mirror. "Not yet, Natalya." 

She touches his face. "Hush, Yasha. I'm sorry. I was thoughtless."

He calms, takes a deep breath. "Maybe another time, when I'm used to this … when …" He sighs. "When I'm not so fucked up. Maybe I shouldn't go tonight."

"Oh, no. You are going to have a wonderful New Years Eve. Let's see what our limited options are. Though you could wear what you have on and you'd still be breathtaking."

Bucky laughs and kisses her on the top of her head, which he knows will infuriate and distract her. She punches his arm. His _left_ arm, and then her eyes widen. "Ouch!"  
Bucky pulls her back into a hug. "C'mon, _moya mladshaya sestra_ , help me?"

"I'm not your little sister," she sniffs, and links her arm through his. They go upstairs, and he opens his wardrobe.

It doesn't take long. His choices aren't extensive. In the end, Natasha picks out a pair of black jeans a white shirt and a dark blue sweater. The sweater is frayed at the collar, but the shirt hides it, and she rolls the worn cuffs back. "You need a haircut," she observes as she runs her fingers through his thick, silky locks. 

It feels good and his head falls forward against her shoulder. She kneads the knots from his neck and he sighs. "Not tonight."

"No." She kisses his forehead. "You have a date." 

He raises his head. "I guess I'm ready."

"Of course you are. Go." She shoves his coat into his hands. "Have fun."

Fun isn't something life has been for him for more years than he can count. He slides his left arm in his coat sleeve, then shrugs it over his right shoulder. "I can't get used to this."

She smiles. "You will."

He's afraid that he will; that he'll become dependent on this marvel. But he shoves his fears aside. They can wait for one night. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky catches the subway to Manhattan and the gallery in the shadow of Stark Tower. The cars are crowded with people heading into the city to celebrate in Times Square — a crush of humanity that has Bucky's PTSD fluttering in his chest. Maybe he should have taken a cab, but that would have cost him a week's rent in the new place. He is shaking by the time he reaches the stop closest to the gallery. 

It's frigid outside, but the lights are bright and the sidewalks filled with people laughing, drinking champagne, and kissing. Bucky feels like an outsider. He's been isolated for more than two years; first in Afghanistan, then in the hospital. Working at the coffee shop has provided him with the most human contact he's had since he was discharged. He stands in front of the gallery, watching people go inside and nearly turns around. Then he sees Steve standing by the window. Pepper is at his side. She's beautiful, graceful and Steve looks like he belongs with these people, even in jeans and a sweater, he's confident and poised, not at all like the pale shadow who had asked Bucky for coffee on Christmas Eve. 

Bucky takes a deep breath and steels himself. He walks through the door, gives his name to the receptionist, and is given a name tag and a pencil, which puzzles him until he sees people writing prices by Steve's paintings. It looks like he's selling a lot, so maybe starvation will be evaded. He comes in quietly, feeling the press of air like a bubble around him as people step back, and he blinks because he knows he's got that thousand yard stare going; the look that he used to keep people at bay. 

Then Steve sees him, and it's like the sun breaks the darkness around him. He gives Bucky a smile and a hug. "You didn't stand me up."

"Said I wouldn't do that. I'm a man of my word." He looks around at the crowd. "Nice turnout."

Steve lifts a shoulder. "They're friends of Tony and Pepper. I don't know most of them."

Bucky nods. "Deep pockets."

"I can only hope … " He stops speaking because he's suddenly realized Bucky's prosthetic. "How … I mean when … Wow, that's different."

Bucky raises his arm slightly. "Yeah. It takes some getting used to, but Stark did something pretty amazing. At least I'm not going to detract from your big night."

Steve looks mildly upset, as if he'd punch anybody who looked at Bucky sideways, which Bucky finds kind of amusing. "So, show me around?"

Steve is about to say yes, when Pepper comes over to him and says, "I hate to interrupt, but Mrs. VanVliet wants to meet you." She smiles at Bucky. "I'm sorry, James."

"Nah, don't mind me. I'll just wander." He snatches up a glass of champagne from a trolling waiter, and a cheese puff from another and watches as Pepper links her arm with Steve's and walks him over to a stout woman with spiky gray hair and diamond earrings the size of sugar cubes in her earlobes. 

He starts wandering the gallery. Some of the paintings and drawings he's seen at Steve's, others are new. He finds the one Steve had been finishing up — the one of the soldier. There is a small yellow tag on it reading "reserved." He wonders who the lucky bastard is to get a fucking masterpiece. 

He takes another glass of champagne and wishes it was whiskey. He finds a quiet corner and watches as Pepper and Tony drag Steve from patron to patron. When he talks about his paintings, his face lights up and he loses the hunch to his shoulders and stands tall. He doesn't know that every eye in the room is following him, like he's the fucking Pied Piper of art. 

Bucky feels out of place and alone. He isn't going diminish Steve's moment. He asks the receptionist for a piece of paper and scribbles a note. _Going home. You don't need me here._

He folds it up and hands it to one of the waiters. "Give this to Steve Rogers." He slips the guy ten bucks to ensure that Steve will get it and it won't end up in the trash at the end of the evening. He catches a taxi - ridiculously easy here in Manhattan and returns to Les Trois Demoiselles. 

His room is too quiet. He turns on the TV and watches the ball drop, as couples kiss and everybody sings , whether or not they know the words. He feels hollow and cold. He has a bottle of whiskey for company, and if he drinks more than he should, at least he doesn't feel loneliness like an ache in his bones. 

 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

He wakes up on New Year's day with a simmering headache, a sore arm, and a low-grade fever. He doesn't know if the three are related or if it's just his fucking luck, but he calls Gemma Simmons. Sounding distressed, she tells him to come to the lab as soon as possible. "You can take some ibuprofen," she says gently before he ends the call. He takes three, then bundles up against the cold before heading out.

The streets are littered with debris from last night even though the sweepers are doing their best. The gallery is shuttered. Bucky hopes Steve sold every single painting, though he still thinks about the one … A passer-by bumps his left arm and the pain brings him back to why he's standing at the Stark Tower entrance.

The friendly receptionist has been replaced by a slightly surly security guard who gives Bucky a look that clearly says he'd better behave himself, asks him who he's seeing and why. The guard relays the message and a few moment later, Gemma appears, still fastening her badge to her lab coat. 

"Sergeant Barnes, I'm sorry to be late."

"You're not late. Thank you for making time on a holiday."

She smiles back at him. "One of the perils of working with Tony Stark. Let's see what's going on with your arm, shall we?"

Twenty uncomfortable and occasionally painful minutes later, the arm is off his body. Gemma looks genuinely upset. "Something isn't right and I'm afraid it will take time to figure it out."

"Don't worry about it, doc. It's a walk in the park compared to losing it the first time." It's supposed to be a joke, but Gemma's eyes well up, making him feel like a real heel. "I'm sorry. Gimp jokes were kind of my specialty at the VA."

She shakes her head. "We _will_ make it right, I promise you."

"It's okay, really." Bucky shrugs his jacket over his shoulder and walks to the subway. He does kind of miss the prosthetic. At the very least, it had given him hope. He leans his head against the window of the subway car and thinks that everything that had seemed so hopeful the day before is slipping through his fingers like smoke. 

When the train reaches his station, he hunches his shoulders and walks quickly towards Les Trois Demoiselles. He nearly doesn't see Steve tucked into the corner of the stairs and the railing. He's wearing a trench coat that is a little too large for him and he looks cold. "'Bout time you showed up," he says. "You stood me up."

"I didn't. I showed up and you were busy." Bucky feels stupidly happy to see him there, to see the smile lurking behind his mock severity. 

"You're kind of a jerk."

"Punk."

Steve laughs. "Seriously? That's all you have to say?" 

"I've had a rough morning."

Steve's eyes go to his empty sleeve. "Shit. I'm sorry, Buck. What happened?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Something wasn't right. Stark's people are working on it." He shivers. "Let's go inside. I'm freezing."

Steve stands up. He's carrying a long tube and a bottle of champagne. Bucky raises his brow. "Still celebrating?"

"It was leftover and I figured why not? It's New Years Day." His eyes are impossibly bright and blue and his lips are rosy from the cold. He's ridiculously adorable. Bucky sighs. "Come on." 

Fortunately, his apartment isn't a disaster; it's clean and the dishes are done. His clothing is stacked in a box, ready for the move. Steve steps inside and looks around. "It's nice."

"It's Natasha's place. She likes nice things." He looks around. "You hungry?"

"Are you cooking?"

"I've got pasta from DiBella's." He takes off his jacket. "Put on the TV if you like."

Steve works the cork out of the bottle of champagne and takes a drink. "I'd rather watch you." 

The kitchen area is small, and Steve is lounging against the counter. He holds out the bottle. "I hate drinking alone." 

Bucky puts the leftover lasagna in the microwave and sets the timer. He steps into Steve's space, plucks the bottle from his fingers, and takes a drink. The wine is cold and fizzy. It's toasty, fresh, with the barest hint of sweetness. It tastes expensive. He licks his lips. Steve is watching him. He lifts a hand and runs his thumb along the line of Bucky's lower lip. What can he do but move in for a kiss?

It's like a match striking and erupting into flame. The kiss is incendiary; the first touch is stunning, breathtaking. Steve's lips, those gorgeous, perfect lips feel like they were made to match Bucky's. It's a long fall into sweet heat. He pulls away for a breath, then traces the lines of Steve's lips with kisses, licks, and nibbles until Steve makes a small, urgent sound of need and opens to Bucky's tongue. He tastes like champagne and sweetness. God, Bucky could kiss Steve like this forever; it's an instant addiction and he never wants to live without it again. 

When he reluctantly ends the kiss, Bucky rests his forehead against Steve's and they settle there, waiting for their hearts to settle and their breathing to even out. Steve's thumbs stroke gently at the angle of Bucky's jaw. 

"Wow. Things … people like you, just don't happen to guys like me." 

Bucky is momentarily speechless. "I'm nothing special, Stevie. Just a one-armed, broken guy with a shit ton of …"

"Shh…" Steve hushes him with another kiss. "Don't talk like that about yourself. I know you. You're kind, brave, and more _real_ than anybody I know."

Bucky sighs. "I may be more real in ways that aren't so great."

"As my mama used to say, 'You gotta take the bitter with the sweet,' and I can do that. I've been doing it my whole life."

Bucky thinks his own life has had more bitter than sweet, but maybe his luck is turning. "Happy New Year, Steve." He's leaning in for another kiss when the microwave beeps and Steve starts laughing. 

Bucky shakes his head sadly. "Cock-blocked by a microwave — that's a new one, even for me."

"Is that the way it is?" Steve asks, his eyes are sparking with laughter. 

"Oh, yeah. That's the way it is." Bucky gives a melodramatic sigh. "Let's eat. Leftover lasagna waits for no man." He finds two wine glasses in Natasha's cupboard and hands them to Steve. "You'd better take these. I can't be trusted with crystal."

They eat at the coffee table. Bucky takes two seat cushions from the sofa and they settle on the floor. He selects holiday tunes on his iPad, figuring this is the last day they'll be playing seasonal music. Steve rests his shoulder against Bucky's, and the warm solidity of human flesh feels so good, so right. He can't help leaning into it. "How long have we known each other?" he muses, knowing the answer even as he speaks.

"A week — not even that long if you count the times we haven't been together."

"Doesn't feel like it. It feels like forever — in the best way."

Steve turns his head and they kiss. "Mmm, garlic," Steve murmurs against Bucky's lips.

"I like garlic," Bucky can't help smiling. He has to ask, though, "What's in the mailing tube?"

Steve's blush is betraying. "I almost forgot." He unfolds himself and retrieves the tube. "It's for you."

Bucky pops the lid and slides the contents out. Steve helps him carefully unroll the paper. It's the watercolor of the soldier walking against the wind. He can't breathe for a moment, overcome with emotion. He struggles to find words and what he says isn't what he wants to say, but what he feels he should say. "I-I can't take this, Steve. It's too much. It belongs on Stark's gallery wall or someplace special, not kept hidden away in a Brooklyn walk-up." 

"I want you to have it. It belongs on your wall," Steve says. "If Stark wants to hang it on his wall, he'll have to ask you to lend it to him. I can see it now … _From the Collection of Mr. James Barnes …_

Bucky laughs even as he dashes away his tears with the back of his hand. "You're certifiable, you know that, right?"

"So I've been told." He takes Bucky's hand. "That doesn't change how I feel."

Bucky sees the truth in Steve's blue eyes, and he thinks he must be drowning in it. Nobody has ever looked at him like that. It makes him feel like maybe, maybe, there might be something worth loving in him; something that isn't bent, broken and scarred. 

"What's wrong?" Steve asks. "Listen, maybe it's too much too soon, but I can't help the way I feel, and I'm always honest." 

"I believe you," Bucky says, "but I'm not —"

"What? Not perfect? Neither am I. I'm stubborn and I have a temper that's gotten me into more trouble than is good for me."

"Yeah, you're a real firecracker."

"I've got the scars to prove it," Steve is suddenly as serious as Bucky's ever seen him. "So, you tell me what you're so afraid of?"

Bucky doesn't want to admit that since he's come home he's afraid of just about everything. Not the cowering sort of fear, but the kind that comes from believing that he's a monster — a killer — who deserves to have been through the hell that has left him ugly and damaged. "I'm not," he manages to choke. "Not afraid."

"Then show me your arm. Prove that you're not afraid. At the very least let me prove that I'm not afraid of you or any part of you." 

"I-I can't." He also can't meet Steve's eyes, which is a dead-giveaway. 

"Then you're a coward," Steve says bitterly. He starts to get up.

Bucky reaches out, grabs his sleeve. "Wait —"

"Well?" 

"You're right. I'm a coward." He smiles slightly. "I never used to be. Or maybe I was hiding it behind my uniform and the barrel of my gun. I believed I was invulnerable … Boy, was I wrong about that." 

Steve kneels next to him. "Show me your damn arm, Bucky. Unless you're afraid that I won't be repelled and you've been using it as an excuse to bail on me."

"Jesus, Steve. You're a hard man."

"Stubborn."

Bucky shrugs out of his flannel shirt, then works his henley over his head. He's still wearing his undershirt, and he pauses. Steve's eyes are wide. They flick over to his empty sleeve then back to his right arm. "Are you with me, kid?" Bucky asks.

"Fuck. I'm not a kid. Really not a kid."

Bucky takes a deep breath and pulls off the white undershirt. He feels like he's naked. Steve reaches out and runs his hand across his clavicle. "Jesus, Bucky. You're beautiful." His warm palm rests on the crown of Bucky's shoulder, then slowly, slips down to the scars and cups the end of his stump. He's gentle even though his palms are a little roughened and chapped. He's biting one corner of his lips as if he's concentrating, and his eyes are weighted by his thick lashes. He leans in and kisses Bucky's shoulder. "Thank you."

Bucky can't breathe. "What? Why"

"For trusting me," Steve replies quietly. "Just in case you haven't noticed, I didn't run screaming from the room. "So, you're not perfect, but you're still beautiful."

"Yeah," he snorts. 

"Asymmetry can be beautiful. I know things like that. I'm an artist."

"Punk," Bucky's voice is shaky, but he takes a deep breath. "Think you can kiss me?"

Steve's smile is brilliant. "Yeah, I can do that … Jerk," he mutters under his breath, and Bucky bursts out laughing.

"C'mere!" He pulls Steve in for a deep kiss. As he kisses him, he runs his hand under Steve's sweater, craving the feel of skin against his. Steve muscles his way out of his sweater without letting Bucky move too far from him. "Skin is good," he breathes.

"Yeah …" he bends his head and tongues Steve's nipples into hardness, smiling as Steve arches beneath him. He can feel the swell of Steve's cock rubbing against his, and he knows he won't last long. "Hold on …" He moves away from Steve, grateful that they're on the floor already. "I'm not coming in my pants like a lovesick virgin."

"Oh … " Steve is blushing red.

"God, you're not — "

"Well … kind of?"

"Kind of?"

"I mean … I've done the blow job thing, and jerked off guys, but anything else. No."

"Your choice?"

Steve's blush intensifies. "Yeah, I'm kind of stupidly old-fashioned." 

"Nothing stupid about that."

"Well it was the deal-breaker with my last boyfriend. So, I'd understand if you backed off."

"Me? Back off from you? Ain't gonna happen, Steve." Bucky leans in and kisses Steve's chest, feeling his muscles quiver at the touch. He hands Steve his sweater and he gathers up his own clothing; and is absurdly touched when Steve helps him dress. He settles the henley on Bucky's left shoulder. "Thanks. I was hoping that arm would work out." He doesn't realize how much he had wanted that until he voices it.

Steve's leans in, his hand warm on the back of Bucky's neck. "I know. I wanted that for you, too. But it's not a deal-breaker in any way. Getting to strip you naked isn't exactly a chore for me." 

Bucky's eyes widen and then he laughs until he's wrapping his arms around his ribs. "Jesus, Steve!" he wipes away the tears streaming down his cheeks. "Nobody but you …"

"Nobody but me, what?" Steve seems utterly bemused by Bucky's reaction. 

"Nobody else but you could take this and turn it into sexy-times." 

Steve's blush flares, but he joins Bucky's laughter. "That's because I'm one of those creative-types. Always looking for a different perspective."

"I like your perspective," Bucky smiles and kisses Steve, who melts into his embrace. When the kiss ends, Bucky takes a deep breath. "Steve, babe … I think I'm kind of in this to the end of the line."

Steve's gaze is direct, his lips grave and sweet. "To the end of the line." He reaches for their glasses and pours champagne in each. "Happy New Year, Bucky."

They clink the glasses, and Bucky feels a stirring of hope that maybe this year, it will be. 

**The End**


End file.
